Sonnet CCCLX

But in my sad seclusion, saw the sky;
some strange, Immortal sunlight beckoned me:
a fragile wonder touched my everything –
I felt a pensive calm, not knowing why.


And in that humble instant, dropped my pride;
without my strength and inner harmony,
searched – desperate for a Higher sympathy.


But wondered at my strange internal lies –
uncertain of the warmth and bliss I felt.
For did I, in my lonesome emptiness,
contrive to forge imagined happiness –


or did my cold self-adequacy melt –
thus drawing me toward the kind Above,
which waited for the day I needed
                                                        – Love?

Sonnet CCCXXXVII

They say Verona’s roses paled nearby

and summer winds retired out of spite

the day the master poised the brush to paint.

Madonna smiles, resplendent in her grace,

the Child swaddled in her azure robes:

The critics rave about the lucid strokes

that shine like flames upon a canvas sea.

The hues shine through the many centuries,

the souvenir of brightest brilliance,

undying to the transient populace.

Instead –

                 thrown out with trash and cans of beer,

half-painted as a shoddy, forged Vermeer,

by whom, but rats shall it be seen?

Oh Fame, you are a fickle, fickle fiend!

Sonnet CCCXXXV

Though dead for centuries and centuries,

you never cease to fascinate and please.

Collective grievances and heartfelt joy

of choirs in their polyphonic play;

Cantatas, mystic in their piousness,

yet human in their rich emotiveness;

Concerti, full of outward brilliance,

and meditative pensiveness within;

The worldliest of dances, slow and fast,

hypnotic rhythms merged with style and class;

A contrapuntal grace and mastery

in heavenly and haunting fugal themes.

Why does your music captivate me so?

I love it all, the little that I know.

Sonnet CCXLIII

No matter how I hate the music of today,
the granny living in my mind dies suddenly
come Christmas time, perhaps from carolling.
For Christmas carols don’t arouse my nagging ways
(although the electronic, tinny versions may).
The happiness within my soul at last is freed,
a chicken frightened usually to stay with me –
she cannot fly, so trapped with me, she must obey.

To what is viewed as crude commercialism’s bliss
I find myself succumbing – toxic happiness.

Its toys might be, but Christmas isn’t poisonous.
It’s not the presents (I don’t want one anyhow)
or even Santa (though he’s real). It’s that an ounce
of hope my heart must buy, as frugal as it is.

Sonnet CLXXXVI

The morning, groggy grey and solemn still,
had hushed the breeze, which wheezed so peevishly.
The churning of the bus was blasphemy
to quiet dawn, reflected in the hills.
The world was blur beyond the window sill,
perched silently above my leather seat
inside that lurid bus. I saw the trees,
the houses far away, a mill,
and then the cemetery by the church,
a little patch of names on tombstone squares.
My memory, by all those names incurred,
remembered all those names from everywhere,
the names of streets named after those who were,
an everlasting farmer’s tribute there.

Sonnet CLXII

A Death. Significant and Ominous.
As powerful as life but permanent.
Some say it’s rising to the Firmament
- to Heaven, everlasting happiness.

Some say that Death’s a barrier to love
or rather, strengthens it as time dies down.
Some say a Death reminds us not to frown,
infirming us of courage from above.

And then there’s death. The crude, real deaths:
the flies that drop and die so suddenly,
the spiders crushed upon the walls in rage,
the flowers in the frost that lose their breath,
the thoughts that flitter, fly, and swiftly cease...
And quickly fears of death thus dissipate.

Sonnet CLIX

When young, I read and read mythology:
Athena, Zeus, Demeter, Artemis;
their namely Romanized equivalents,
and other gods and other deities.

When young, I read and read the Tudor age:
the Kings and Queens – Elizabeth the first,
the wives her father had, the hate and hurt,
and intrigues of the court, like battles waged.

So why do I remain without a God?
I’ve read so many others; should I find
one there? And aren’t religious texts like tales
and histories? But still I’ll stay so fraught
with wondering, regret, and wasted time;
so obstinate, rejecting holy ways.

Sonnet CLIII

Of Aragon, fat Catherine was replaced
by Anne Boleyn, who lost her head one day
to Seymour Jane who, by her son, was saved
but killed, succeeded then by Anne the Mare
(of Cleves), supplanted next by Kathryn, laid
by all; last, Parr survived – because she prayed!

And so six wives King Henry thusly had.
He scared his children, never to have kids.
No wonder poor Elizabeth was glad
to stay a Virgin Queen, although amidst
a swarm of suitors – rich, ambitious lads.
But then again, King Henry’s eldest kid -
that Bloody Mary married Phillip, eh?
But then, hence stressed, she burnt those heretics...

Sonnet LXXVI

I thought I heard an owl call at dawn.
At once my thoughts by reverence were pawned.
I realized that fate comes at scheduled rounds,
my death the first of other ones.

I saw my funeral, like tapes rewound.
It rained a little, at the lonely grounds.
In January, sullen snows did rain,
my undead heart arrested by the cold.

I did not see the clouds which hailed the dead
or flutterings of birds that sought my bed.
The worms, so bitter, had no great effect.
Tears fell on deafened ears that rotted well.

For pearly gates await no sickly soul,
but solitude’s a gift for public holes.

Sonnet L

And though through death my slumber is but reaped,
Eternity shall break my salvaged rest.
Though immortality will be my prayer
It kills the purpose of my death – to sleep.

Ah, long eternity will wait for me.
That dismal length of time where boredom lays.
I cannot help society or such
And human pleasures I could never see.

Eternity, a cruel and ugly word,
Which makes the thought of Heaven feebly dry.
If I was to but live for all of time
What uselessness and boredom I’d incur!

Oh, sad infinity, which is a lie.
In calm fulfilment I would rather die.